Darkest Hour

Neither Tanner nor Peploe spoke until they were outside the building and standing in the parade-ground. The sun still shone brightly and Tanner squinted. A sudden roar of aero-engines from behind the office block made both men turn. Through a gap between the buildings, Tanner saw a Blenheim take to the air, followed by two more, then another three a few moments later. The two men moved to where they could see the bombers better and watched as they climbed into the sky and away towards the coast.

'Beasts of aircraft, aren't they?' said Peploe. 'Six-oh-oh Squadron. I've learned there're three squadrons here - the Blenheims, the Defiants of 264 Squadron and the Hurricanes of 632. I've often wondered what the world must look like from up there. Pretty bloody amazing, I should think.' He smiled. 'Have you ever fancied flying, Sergeant?'

'Like you, sir, I wouldn't mind being able to look down on the world, but I think the Army suits me better. I prefer to have my feet firmly on the ground rather than relying on a machine up in the sky.'

'I suppose there's something in that - although I wouldn't have minded flying fighters. At least then it's just you and your plane. No men to worry about. Actually, the OC of 632 Squadron is Captain Barclay's brother-in-law, Squadron Leader Charlie Lyell. Apparently it's a total coincidence that they should both end up here, but it seems very cosy to me.'

'It's a pretty small world in the military, sir, even during wartime.'

'Yes, I suppose so. Like you and the CSM being thrown together again.'

'Exactly, sir.'

Tanner turned to head back across the parade-ground but Peploe scratched his head and said, 'Look, would you like a quick tour of the place first? A sort of orientation? No one ever bothered to give me one when I first got here, but I wished they had.'

Tanner readily agreed. He was curious about the fuel theft and had intended to look at the Polish quarters and the fuel stores anyway. Peploe had seemed to doubt Blackstone's conviction about the Poles' culpability and certainly it struck Tanner as somewhat odd. After all, how would these men, presumably only recently arrived in England, know where to sell petrol on the black market? Or were they hiding it for later?

First, Peploe wanted to show him the airfield itself. There were, he explained, effectively two airfields, the Northern Grass and the main field, which were bisected by the road leading to Manston village. As he led Tanner to the far side, where the watch office stood, he said, 'I hope you don't mind me saying this, but I couldn't help noticing that you looked rather taken aback by the way the sergeant-major lounged in that armchair.'

'I suppose I was a bit, sir.'

'He's certainly very chummy with the OC. I don't have a yardstick by which to judge these things - as you've probably guessed, I'm new to the Army - but I can see it's perhaps not the normal way of things.'

'I suppose that's between him and the OC, sir.'

Peploe looked thoughtful. 'I also got the impression you don't much like CSM Blackstone.'

Tanner grinned ruefully. 'I'm afraid he wasn't my favourite person out in India.'

'He's very popular here. The lads seem to think the world of him. So does the OC. To be honest, Blackstone is absolutely his right-hand man. I suppose it's because he's such an old hand - but he's a strong character too. Rather clever, in his way.'

'Oh, he's that, all right,' said Tanner.

Peploe laughed. 'So speaks a man who knows. Well, in any case, I'm certain experience must be the best kind of training. It's why I'm delighted you've joined the platoon.'

'You're right about experience, sir,' replied Tanner. 'You can be the best soldier in training but until you've been under fire you haven't been tested.'

'I'm sure you have much to teach me, Sergeant Tanner. I was at university before the war, and come from a farming family with no military background whatsoever, so being a soldier is still very much a novelty to me.'

'Your father wasn't in the last war, then, sir?'

'No - he stayed on the farm. So did my uncle.'

'Well, there's not much to it, really. I'll bet you know how to use a rifle, sir.'

'I know how to use one, Sergeant. To a farmer's son, shooting is part of the growing-up process. I wouldn't say I'm an especially good shot, although it's certainly not for want of practice. And what about you?' he asked, pointing to the embroidered badge on the forearm of Tanner's battle-blouse - two crossed rifles crested by a crown and ringed with leaves. 'Forgive my ignorance, but I'm guessing that's a marksman's badge of some kind.'

Tanner smiled. 'The Army likes badges, sir.'

'But it is a marksman's badge?'

'Skill in Shooting, sir. But it doesn't mean much.'

'Where did you learn to shoot? With the Army?'

'Like you, sir, I grew up with it.'

'A farmer too?'

'Not as such. My father was a gamekeeper.'

Peploe nodded - that explains it - then said, 'But not in Yorkshire, I take it. Somewhere down south, guessing from your accent.'

'South Wiltshire, sir, A while ago now. I joined up as a boy.'

Peploe adjusted his cap. 'Forgive me, Sergeant, all these questions. I'm a nosy sod, aren't I?'

They had almost reached the far side of the airfield. A number of Defiants were lined up in front of the watch office, their ground-crew tinkering with them. In one, a man was testing the hydraulics of the gun turret, swivelling through three hundred and sixty degrees, the electronics whirring.

'I'm sorry to bring up CSM Blackstone again,' said Peploe, as they paused by the watch office, 'but I hope whatever argument you have with him won't be a problem for the platoon - or the company, for that matter.'

A warning, albeit gently made, but still Tanner felt his heart sink. Damn, damn. Blackstone had already caused him to get off on the wrong foot with this new posting. 'It won't be, sir. It's true I don't like the man, but I won't let that get in the way of anything.'

Peploe nodded. 'Good.' He smiled at Tanner again. 'You know, Sergeant, I think you and I are going to get along just fine.'

Good. Tanner relaxed a little. He felt rather the same. Just so long as Blackstone doesn't get in the way. But, by God, he was going to have to watch his step.

Inside the hut it was warm and still, the sun pouring through the windows and capturing a million tiny dust particles disturbed by the arrival of the men. Aware that to step outside was to court unwanted attention, the five had taken off their battle-blouses, rolled up their shirtsleeves and settled down to a game of poker around one of the unused beds.

More than an hour after they had begun, two - Bell and Kershaw - had fallen by the wayside, although they were still there as spectators.